


FIC:  Brothers in Arms [Gen, PG-13]

by pie_andcoffee



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pie_andcoffee/pseuds/pie_andcoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The End Game is near, and they've realized there is only one <i>certain</i> way to stop it. And Dean isn't sure it's even right to try anymore; he's not even sure they're playing on the right side. Maybe they're supposed to give in – so that humanity can win.  But Sam has an idea – and Dean figures, even if it doesn't work, they'll have given it their best shot… which means, they'll go down swinging.  And that's all he's ever asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FIC:  Brothers in Arms [Gen, PG-13]

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current location:** |  [under the rainbow](http://maps.google.com/maps?q=under+the+rainbow)  
---|---  
**Current mood:** | artistic  
**Current music:** | the pretenders, stand by you  
**Entry tags:** |   
[bobby](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/bobby), [brothers in arms](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/brothers+in+arms), [castiel](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/castiel), [dean](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/dean), [end game](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/end+game), [fic](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/fic), [lucifer](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/lucifer), [michael](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/michael), [pdf downloads](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/pdf+downloads), [pg-13](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/pg-13), [sam](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/sam), [tessa](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/tag/tessa)  
  
  
_**FIC: Brothers in Arms [Gen, PG-13]**_  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/sophiebriand/pic/00007yfb/)  
_Illustrations by the amazing [Jo, aka apieceofcake](http://apieceofcake.livejournal.com)_  
**Title**: Brothers in Arms. A fully illustrated, portable .pdf download of this story is available for your convenience, here.  
**Characters/Pairing**: Dean, Sam, Tessa the Reaper, Bobby, Castiel, Lucifer, Michael. Pairings are all in your head. That said, have fun.  
**Warnings/Ratings**: A good, strong PG-13  
**Word Count**: ~10.5K words  
**A/N**: Written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/un_love_you/profile)[**un_love_you**](http://community.livejournal.com/un_love_you/), Prompt #30: Author's Choice: _I will always be here_. Prompt table [here](http://sophiebriand.livejournal.com/4486.html).  
**Disclaimer**: As if. If this is where Kripke is going, you can't blame me.   
**Thanks to**: [](http://lila-blue-b.livejournal.com/profile)[**lila_blue_b**](http://lila-blue-b.livejournal.com/), [](http://blacklid.livejournal.com/profile)[**blacklid**](http://blacklid.livejournal.com/), and [](http://inlaterdays.livejournal.com/profile)[**inlaterdays**](http://inlaterdays.livejournal.com/) for amazing beta, and also to Lila for the Latin and helpful research on holy oil. Also to Blacklid for [this entry](http://blacklid.livejournal.com/279100.html).   
**Synopsis**: The End Game is near, and they've realized there is only one _certain_ way to stop it. And Dean isn't sure it's even right to try anymore; he's not even sure they're playing on the right side. Maybe they're supposed to give in – so that humanity can win. But Sam has an idea – and Dean figures, even if it doesn't work, they'll have given it their best shot… which means, they'll go down swinging. And that's all he's ever asked.   
**Music**: The Pretenders, _I'll Stand By You_ There is a playlist for Brothers in Arms [here](http://www.last.fm/user/prettyfreckles/library/playlists/3lwpi_brothers_in_arms) at last.fm.

> We're fools to make war  
> on our brothers in arms

 

She had been here before, in attendance, watching. So many times they had managed to pass through the fire and emerge relatively unscathed to fight another day for the good of the world, _their_ world, and each other. But this time it was for real. She could feel it. The brothers had only a few hours left.

She would wait. They had said their good-byes. It wouldn't be long now.

***

Bobby Singer hung up the black telephone on the wall that was marked "FBI" and spun his chair around, purposefully heading for the hall. There'd been no answer - _again_ \- and damn if he'd leave another voice mail. He hadn't heard from those boys in over a month, which in the past may not have been that unusual, but since the world was on fire he'd counted on them checking in at least once a week. Those calls were supposedly to see how he was doing and if he needed anything, like a lap dance, and not because they were lying in a blank ditch somewhere in a world getting damned full of ditches.

He couldn't think what he would do if the worst had happened. _Damn it. Where were they?_

The last place he knew the Winchesters had been was more than two days south of his junkyard, and he just had a feeling – Bobby had learned to follow this kind of feeling. He sat thinking for two more minutes, mentally thumbing through a list, and made a decision.

He wheeled himself out to his van and got inside, using the lift at the rear and locking his chair in place before he drove. His dry fingers twitched slightly before he sighed and balled them into a fist. "Damn idjits," he muttered. Gripping the wheel, he sighed deeply and headed out on the highway. It was seven hours before dawn, but lately Bobby hadn't seemed to need much sleep.

There was a war on. He'd be moving all night and probably most of the next day.

***

A muscle worked in Sam Winchester's cheek as he poured the oil carefully into the large container. He had no idea how they were going to actually do what they were planning to do, but he checked the level with a steady glance and kept pouring. Dean was waiting at the door, blocking the light. He stepped inside briefly, leaving the door open behind him. "Hurry up, Sam."

Sam paused. "Dude, they're not going to do anything until we do. Relax," he answered.

Dean sighed and kicked the toe of his boot in the dry dust on the floor of the empty room. His clear eyes shone amber-green as the light from the lantern flickered across the planes of his face. It had been a long road to this point, and Sam stopped and looked up at him, not for the first time struck by his brother's appearance. Tall and broad-shouldered, he stood there like The Rock of Petra in spite of all they had seen, and was still staring death in the face in the same defiant way he always had.

It didn't matter.

Sam shrugged, sniffed slightly, and continued pouring. There was a litter of containers on the floor around him, which he swept over with a glance before returning to his work. Dean muttered something and went back outside. It was relatively quiet for some minutes, the silence broken only by the soft chuff and clinking as Sam slowly emptied each small vial and container of holy oil into the larger plastic jugs, one by one.

A shadow passed over Sam's right hand, and the muscles tensed reflexively just before he looked up. "Here," Dean murmured, holding out two more flasks. "I found them under the front seat."

"Thanks."

Dean got down on one knee beside his brother, eyeing the level of oil in the two plastic jugs to Sam's left. "Here, let me," he said. He unscrewed the cap and held it out to Sam, who moved his hand away just as Dean placed the neck of the shiny metal flask against the opening.

The oil glistened and flowed into the jug like golden wine.

***

Earlier, Sam and Dean were in the Impala going west, where it had all begun – where it all would end. But first, they had another stop to make. Like beads on a string, they had collected something from each step along the way, re-tracing their father's path, perhaps unconsciously, maybe by design. Either way, it compelled them to go back to the little town halfway across the country that had always stood out in their minds, despite the name, as the place that Dad had been possessed by the Yellow-eyed Demon. They had avoided it since then. For some reason it didn't matter now and they were headed straight for it.

_Salvation._

"Dude, do you think we could change that?"

"What, you don't like The Scorpions?" Dean laughed as the words filtered through Sam's head.

_Here I am  
Won't you send me an angel…_

"Ugh. Seriously, I'm not listening to that."

Dean shrugged, chuckling. "Suit yourself."

Sam leaned over the seat and dug out the box of cassettes. He rustled through them listlessly, and sighed. "There's nothing here I really want to listen to, Dean."

"Guess you'll have to take it, then," was the laconic answer. Dean eyed his brother. "Hey," he said. "I know what's bothering you. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I do."

"No, I'll take it from here. We get just one of them, and it's still the end of Judgment Day. No problem." Dean leaned forward and turned the radio knob. The volume went down in counterpoint to Sam's visibly rising agitation.

The taller brother was shaking his head as Dean settled back and kept his eyes fastened between the white lines of the highway. "Dude, I said I do, and I am in this all the way. So quit trying to be the hero," said Sam. "You know it has to be both of us, it's the only way it's certain. Besides," Sam tilted his neck. "You're not doing this by yourself."

"Okay, whatever."

Sam glared at his brother. "Hasn't it dawned on you what's going to happen?"

"What, when this all goes down? Yeah, Sammy. It's the end of the world as we know it." Dean eyed him stonily, and then shifted in his seat. Eyes back on the road, he looked grim, and then continued, "But everything stops. It's all over. No more – end of the world. Hah."

Sam fumed and pressed his knuckles against the seat between them. "It may not be that easy." He shrugged, his brown hair falling over his forehead as it creased and his lips twisted in a wry frown. "What if it doesn't work?"

No answer. Sam stared at the dashboard as the miles slipped by. "Dean, in case something goes wrong, I want you to know that –"

"Shut up, Sam."

The tone in Dean's voice sliced through to the bone. Sam wanted to kill him when he cut him off like that.

_What was he thinking? God, maybe it was good that things would be over soon.  
_  
He reached out and flicked off the radio, daring his brother to stop him. Dean smirked and shook his head but said nothing. Sam took a deep breath, glaring out the window into the dark, his eyes resolutely shining.

He didn't see the tear glistening in the corner of Dean's eye or the way he looked at him with long, slowly lingering care, his lashes flickering over his hands, his long fingers, the tall length of him, his shoulders. Dean held his breath and concentrated on driving until the urge to weep had ceased. He shifted a glance over Sam's still form in the seat beside him and swallowed, tasting salt in the back of his throat. It shouldn't be this way – it was _so_ wrong, Sam shouldn't have to --.

Dean looked away as Sam's head started to swing back around. By the time Sam saw him, his eyes were locked on the road, his jaw like granite in the stillness.

"Here," Sam pointed at the driveway as the church loomed up out of the darkness. The spire pointed defiantly at the blood-red sky, like a dagger poised at the end of a bleeding, gaping wound. Dean slowed the car. "Here, and let's hope there's enough with this last stop – I just don't wanna keep stopping."

Dean nodded tersely as he turned the wheel. "You said it."

***

"Holy oil? What do you want with four gallons of holy oil?"

"Actually, we only want two. We've got some ourselves."

"Yeah, two more gallons should be enough," Dean confirmed. He and Sam exchanged a look. "And could you hurry up? We're kind of –we need to keep to a schedule."

The priest shook his head. "Hunters," he murmured. But he slipped back inside and disappeared, his footsteps echoing down the long hall.

Presently, he was back. "Here you go," he handed them a box. "Be careful," he admonished, as Dean opened it. Inside there were four small jars.

"Is this all you have?"

"It's not the kind of thing I keep on hand except for christenings and Easter. We make it once a year – I won't get any more until next Spring."

Sam leaned forward, his arm outstretched. He took the priest's hand in his. "Thank you," he said. He gave the priest an envelope. "For the collection plate," he smiled. "Let's go," he said to his brother.

The priest watched them leave. The taller one's shadow fell over the body of his brother, shielding the other's eyes from the setting sun as he placed the box carefully in the trunk. Then they moved to opposite sides of the car, getting in and shutting the doors in unison.

The wheels whispered up the drive and the Impala disappeared in a coil of dust that rose up on either side and hid their retreat completely, like a smoky-blue fog advances over the waves as the tide returns to sea.

In the stillness of the evening twilight, the Father let out a long, slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and silenced the question that rose to his lips. He'd noted the quiet hiss of desperation in the younger ones' voice, and he'd seen how death hung over the older one like a pale, tight-lipped grimace. It was obvious they were going to try to trap an angel, and from the looks of it, maybe a big one. Where ever those two were heading, they wouldn't be coming back. Well, then. He gathered his things, and headed back inside the church.  
_  
After all, it is the end of the world_, he chuckled to himself. What difference would it make if two more young hunters never had the opportunity to grow old? The blackness in his eyes loomed in the dimness.

Back at the altar, he drew his knife and made a series of quick slices, and waited patiently, humming softly to himself. After a few moments he held up the cup of wisdom, nearly brimful of the blood that had spilled from his own wrists. The body of the priest wouldn't be good for much after he was through with it, he might as well find out more of the future while he still could.

_"O Ater Princeps, da nobis dominium, et consecra has actiones! Adiuva nos!" _1 The priest sensed that something was coming through a watery dimness. The words came through his mouth, but were not of his understanding… he knew Latin, of course, but he'd never heard this sort of incantation, and couldn't figure out why he was saying these things, why it felt as if someone – or something – was occupying his mind, had taken over his body.

He felt cold. He continued speaking a strange set of incantations, and though he was confused, he was conscious, even alert, through most of it. When the bright light came he was dazzled, stunned, and then ...silently screaming, locked inside his own body, the priest understood.

An hour later, when they found him, all he could whisper was, "Sunrise." But they shook their heads and murmured, "No, Father, calm yourself. Be still."

_He'll never see the sunrise_, one of them said to the other. _What could he mean?_ his companion muttered. "I don't suppose it matters," was the answer. "Someone will pick up his duties at the parish, let them worry about it."

He faded in and out again. He struggled as they picked him up and carried him on a gurney, felt the movement underneath and knew he was bound for the end, and prayed for safety.

"Brothers… two … and four…"

"Father Perez. You must be calm."

"Everything will be all right, father. We're making you comfortable."

He felt himself lifted and settled among the sheets. There were lilies, and a bright light. "The end …must …stop. Please," he whispered. "Don't let them do it."

"It'll be over soon, Father. Rest. You're among friends, see?"

"I see …sunrise…" The nurse shook her head. It was one o'clock in the morning, and sunrise was a long way off, but this man would be gone by then, his suffering would be over. For now, it was her job to keep him comfortable, and watch him through the night. _Massive hemorrhaging, the aneurism had obviously affected his brain. Poor man had no idea where he was, and just look at those cuts on his arms_. She patted his hand, checked the monitor, and left to summon the doctor.

"Where, Father? Where are they going to be at sunrise? And why?"

The angel stood over him in a beige trench coat, his dark hair falling forward, an earnest frown between his brows, his blue eyes luminous, almost purple. The priest could no longer speak, but the demon could have read the Winchesters minds and left that knowledge with the priest. The angel touched him, and knew his secrets in an instant. He saw the brothers standing before him, holding the jugs of oil, and then the sun breaking over the horizon, and one word sprang into his consciousness: _West_.

It was all he needed. With that word coupled with the fact that they were gathering oil, Castiel believed he knew what the brothers planned. _But no_, his inner conscience whispered. _It's a trap to catch you_.

It was no matter. He would hurry. There was still time.

***

Two days ago, they had been sitting in a dusty diner, waiting on their food and listening to the pound of the bass in the jukebox right behind them. It was annoying and yet… somehow, it fit the mood.  
_  
The night they drove ol' Dixie down  
And all the people were singin they said_

_"Nah nah nah-na nah-nah-nah,"_ trilled Dean as he shot the paper from his straw across the table at Sam, hitting him on the nose.

"Cut it out!"

Dean made a face and leered as the waitress walked by. She smiled in return. Sam sat in silence.

"What?"

"Nothing, Dean."

"Dude, what? You've been crabby as hell – okay, maybe not hell, because nothing compares to that, not even your face. But seriously, you've been an ass for the past three days. What gives?"

"It's nothing. Seriously, knock it off." Sam huffed out a breath and sat back, not looking at his brother. "Eat your breakfast," he gestured at the plate being set down across from him.

Dean started to speak, then shrugged and attacked the cheeseburger and fries on his plate with gusto. He didn't have to be told twice, even if Sam hadn't noticed he'd used the wrong word for the meal they were eating. It was half-past four in the afternoon and it was late for them even to be eating lunch.

_Stage Fright_, by The Band, was playing on the jukebox in the corner. _ How not subtle_, Sam thought wryly.

"This is crazy," muttered Sam. He didn't have much appetite, and after picking the tomatoes off his sandwich and piling them in the corner of his plate, he nibbled a bit at the turkey, pulling off pieces with his teeth as he opened up his laptop. Dean pointedly ignored him, enjoying the food on his plate. Eventually Sam dropped the sandwich, sat back against the seat, and stared out the window.

"You know, Dean - we're never going to win."

"What?" Dean gestured with his empty beer bottle and the waitress snagged it, promising to return in a minute with a fresh one. She was as good as her word, and before Sam could open his mouth, she had set down a pair of cold ones on the table.

"No, thanks," Sam said, but she was already gone.

"Don't worry, Sammy. Drink up. It's for your health," Dean grinned.

Sam's eyes narrowed. "I don't want to," was his irritated answer. "I don't want to drink up. Dean," Sam leaned across the table intently. "I don't want to do any of that anymore. I just want to _fight_."

Dean smirked. "Oh, yeah?" He set the bottle down on the table and leered at Sam. "Define 'fight.'"

"We've got to be smarter, Dean," Sam replied. "We can't just take them out with -- they've got all the tools, and they're immune to everything."

"Yeah, the Colt – waste of time. Plus, the knife never worked on angels."

"You know that? Do we know that for certain?"

"Yeah."

Sam was silent. If Dean said it, there was no point in asking. So he was a little surprised when Dean continued, "I tried it on Cas when he first appeared. Was like driving a spike into two tons of granite. Locked up my elbow, thought it was broken," Dean chuckled, rubbing his right arm and shaking his head.

"You tried Ruby's knife on Cas?"

"Yeah, what an idiot," he said, sighing and tapping his own chest with a blunt motion.

Sam was silent. He avoided Dean's eyes; it was too painful, still, to think about the previous summer when he was alone, and Dean was in hell.

"Well, we need to get going," Dean drained the rest of his beer and eyed Sam's – still untouched across the table. "You going to drink that?"

"Nah, you go ahead," Sam stared across the room.

"What? You kidding? I'm not drinking that – unless you're driving," Dean waved his hand in the air.

"Let's go, Dean," Sam stood up suddenly. "I think we're done here." He flipped a bill out of his wallet and moved toward the door. Dean shrugged, grinned regretfully at the waitress, and followed him.

***

_The sky is crying  
Look at the the tears rollin' down the streets…  
I looked out my window  
At the rain fallin' down people's cheeks  
The sun is shinin'  
Although it's rainin' in my heart  
\--Eric Clapton, Blues_

Meanwhile, Bobby was two states away and madder than hell. "What do you mean, you haven't seen them?" he shouted into his phone. "Damn it, Rufus. Those boys –never mind. Just – call me if you hear anything." He hung up disgustedly, frowning into the waning twilight. Not for the first time he wished for Ellen's good sense, someone to bounce ideas off of, or Pamela Barnes' psychic wisdom.

So many good people, gone, in this war --to save what was left of nothing. All gone, all _gone_.

He sighed and pulled off the road, entering the parking lot of a motel and cutting the engine. He sat staring at his phone. He'd been patient and he'd left messages and then checked his voice mail repeatedly over the past several weeks, silently begging for just a short, "Hey Bobby, we're okay, don't worry –" and still, no word.

_Damn idjits. Really, those two were the idiot twins._

He pressed the button on his cell phone almost by habit; if he'd taken time to think he wouldn't have made the call. But this time there was an answer. "Sam? Jesus, is that you, boy?"

"Yeah, Bobby, it's me. Look, I'm sorry we haven't gotten back to you. Things have been kind of …well, you know. It's been hard. We don't have any news, really."

"Damn, son, it's good to hear you." Bobby blinked. He sighed and shifted the phone to his other ear. "So, where are you two holed up? Dean's with you, right?"

"Yeah, Dean's here. We're fine." Sam's voice was muffled, and Bobby could hear something vaguely rumbling, like a low vibration, in the background.

Maybe they were near an airport – could it be planes taking off? No. Wait – Bobby knew that sound.

"Where're you two headed?"

"Well, we're not headed to Detroit, that's for sure." This was said under his breath, and Sam swallowed as he realized he probably shouldn't have said it. "Listen Bobby," Sam spoke hurriedly. "No matter what happens, don't worry. It's all going to happen the way it's supposed to," Sam said. Bobby strained to hear him as his voice crackled on the line.

"Sam? Son, you there?" Bobby yelled.

"We're in California, Bobby, and it's okay – Dean and I are taking care of a few things. Don't worry," Sam said again, and then there was nothing, only a sound like the whoosh of the tide inside the conch shell he remembered once holding to his ear as a child.

"Sam? Sam," he said, but there was no answer. Bobby sat still in his seat, listening to nothing, the sure knowledge creeping over him that something had happened, or was happening, and that he wasn't going to hear Sam's voice again for a long, long time.

He reassured himself, after awhile, that the boys were still together. And then he threw the van into gear again and wheeled onto the highway. All signs up to this point were leading him to a place outside of Sacramento, California – where it had begun and where he figured there was nowhere else it could end. Detroit be damned – Lucifer could only be trusted to scramble things up and lead them nowhere; that was another red herring if he'd ever heard one. Bobby was now certain of what was going down, and there was no way that was happening if there was any way left for him to throw a log in the gears and … God help them.

Bobby blinked back his fears and sped up, his thoughts running ahead of him. What if John Winchester had been right all those years ago, and it _was_ the apocalypse, after all. As he drove, Bobby wondered if John had known how literally the things he'd said would play out… and if it would do him any good now, to try to stop them.

But then, the time for questioning between wrong and right, bad and good, had long passed – so long ago that Bobby couldn't really remember what that felt like. All that remained for him now were those two boys, and a date with destiny.

***

Dean stared at his younger brother, slowly raising his eyebrows.

"You wanna _what?_" His voice was a low breath of sound, like the wind had been knocked out of him. He was incredulous.

"I think it'll work. What choice do we have? You said yourself nothing else works on angels. The only thing that will contain an angel is holy fire. We've got to turn their _own_ weapons against them. Power. Greed. Stealth." Sam wasn't blinking as he spoke, and he was calm, almost deadly so.

"No. No, Sam," Dean shook his head. "This is insane."

"Maybe. But when has that stopped us?" Sam smirked, locking eyes with Dean.

"Never," they said in unison.

"I remember what it was like to be possessed. I was conscious for some of it, like some others have said. And I distinctly remember that Bobby was able to overpower it just for the instant it took to turn the knife on himself." He'd said this last before he could stop himself and winced internally at the look on Dean's face. "It'll work, Dean. I know it will." Sam's voice was steady.

"Yeah, but that was just a warehouse grocery store demon, Sam."

"We're not warehouse grocery bags, Dean."

Dean huffed, sighed and looked at the floor. Then he nodded slowly. "Yeah. I'm having a bit of déjà-vu myself. Remember how I woke up in the djinn's warehouse? There I was, hanging like a side of beef in a meatlocker, waiting for him to come back and – " Dean closed his eyes, remembering something. A pair of bright eyes, looking up at him, trusting.

The next instant those same eyes had blinked in horror, watched him start to plunge the knife into his belly, and closed his hand around his fingers trying to pull the knife away as the blood started to spill over them. He'd looked up, quirked a smile just before he was going to pass out.

And the next instant, something had shifted and there was Sam, cutting him down, setting him free. Dean realized in that instant that the room had been there all the time - dim, grey, and shadowed, concealing the truth, and then as the tip of the knife point grazed his skin it was suddenly as bright as day by comparison, and the fake world had fallen away like last year's outgrown shirt. He was alive, weakened, but able to cut down the girl nearby. Even as he recognized her as the one who'd kept appearing in the background of his happy, alternate world, and who evoked the memories of the skeletons in his closet – and when he'd realized the djinn came religiously and drank a little more of her blood – perhaps it was understandable, but he hadn't hated the djinn more than then.

No one – no creature, no living thing – or unliving thing – should be able to feed off of the life of another. Dean gritted his teeth, knowing he, himself was a big one to talk. After all, the heart beating in his chest wasn't even his own. He owed his life to the fact that others had died and he hated it. But he wouldn't be like the djinn, who left his debts unpaid, a thief in a place of constant night stealing the life from his victims. Off-the-map angels like Lucifer, Zachariah, and even that sonofabitch Gabriel weren't too different from the djinn, for all their high-blown reasoning. It all came down to selfishness.

No. Sam was right. God, it was insane – but it had to be done.

"Okay, Sam. I'm in," Dean watched as Sam seemed to crumple a little at the words. He leaned over, smacked his arm, and smiled. "Let's see who makes a bigger barbecue."

Sam laughed in spite of himself. "You're on."

***

And so they gathered holy oil, rounded up urns and lanterns and vials and spirit lamps blessed from guarded temples, pouring the thin distillation into plastic jugs until there was enough to make the fire they would need. They carried what remained of the oil that Castiel had first used to trap Raphael, and they had used to squelch Gabriel's plans to force them to "play their roles."

Then they set off for California, knowing the angels and demons followed close behind, intent on sealing their fates and that of mankind in their own vessels. But Dean and Sam intended to stop the end of the world, and there was only one way that could be done.

They didn't speak of their ultimate goals. They didn't need to. When the time came, Sam and Dean would just do it. They counted on the signs etched into their ribs to protect them from the angels up until the very moment they would need to reveal themselves …and what they planned to do.

The demons would take care of themselves. They had long since stopped worrying about them.

Meanwhile, Castiel on the one hand and Bobby Singer on the other were drawing closer to the truth, but the Reaper was the only one who knew it. She was content with the way things were. It was not her place to judge, only to assist in carrying forth the intentions of fate, fulfilling destinies.

She had never failed at that, and she wasn't going to start now. It didn't matter that this was not the death she'd foreseen. She accepted it as God's will. The two had always been instruments of that ultimate power, and even Lucifer and Michael – brothers who had missed their chance at implementing that power of love on earth, and instead were bent on destroying each other – could not stop the Winchesters.

This, Tessa believed, was as it should be. There was a fitting and appropriate purpose to this juxtaposition, this switching of roles.

They were fine men, and she was honored to be chosen to take even one of them into the great beyond, there at the end.  
_  
Amen, even so come,_ she whispered. And waited for the brilliant light to signify what had been done, and that she was needed.

***

Castiel was annoyed, but he hid it well. He knew that the only reason he was called nowadays was for the Winchesters to consult the 6,000 year old encyclopedia of religious knowledge he carried around inside his head. Or was it his heart? He supposed that in all fairness he didn't actually have one of those but he liked to believe he knew how those things worked. The heart – emotions – and the impact these had on the behavior of humans had been one of the more interesting derivatives that had led him to follow the Winchesters instead of an absent God. Well, this had been true, at first.

Now he followed them around because he really had no choice. He couldn't afford to lose them and had only sidestepped to the hospital back in Iowa to learn what the priest knew because the poor man had been possessed at the time he'd given the holy oil to Sam and Dean. You never knew when knowing the thoughts of a demon could be helpful.

So Castiel came when the Winchesters called, but unbeknownst to Dean he was really never far enough away that he couldn't know or guess where they were. He was pretty certain Sam realized it, but the younger one wasn't really his concern.

No, he could not afford to let Dean out of his sight. Not now, of all times.

So they had called and he had come and now he listened. They were interested in making a large batch of Jerusalem oil – the oil from the Temple. The holiest of holy oils - in olden times it was called the Oil of Eternal Light. This same oil had miraculously burned for eight days once. Their request concerned him, and it was certainly not going to happen without his help. His attention was arrested.

"What is it for?" The angel cocked his head to the side. He wanted to know. When he had touched the dying priest he had learned that he'd given them holy oil and a hint about which direction they'd gone. All he'd been able to do was presuppose --and hope that he was in time.

"Not really your business, Cas. If I tell you I'd have to kill you." Dean's voice was mirthless but his eyes danced, silver sparkles radiating from deep inside them, catching the light like a candle flares forth at the flick of a match.

"Amusing." He watched them pour the oil from a dozen or so containers into a large bucket. He squinted at the words on the side. _Five US Gallons_. "That isn't really the sort of container holy oil is supposed to…"

"Shut it, Cas. This is all we have. It'll have to do. Besides," Dean added. "From my understanding of most of these ceremonies it's the thought that counts, or so they say."

Sam quirked a look at his brother. "What? You know that's true, Sam." Dean grinned and continued, "And you know I'm right."

Cas knew that the brave words belied the plan, whatever it was. A frisson of fear cloaked Dean's face for the briefest instant, before his features were schooled perfectly into an expectant grin.

"I think you should tell me what you are up to before I can agree to help you."

"Nothin' doin'." Dean stood up and walked over to the angel's vessel. His eyes were large and brilliant, his jaw was set, he appeared tired but completely alert, like a watchdog, towering like a sentinel as he came nearer. "You'll help us make more or we'll use what we have left from the last time we trapped one of you bastards – it's not much but it's enough for one, I think, and – I don't know, how do you like the idea of becoming a nice, fat Roman candle, Cas?" Castiel voluntarily retreated a step, and then out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam approaching. He stood at Dean's side and the two of them looked at him.

"Please," said Sam.

***

 

Castiel still did not know why his attention was arrested at that point. The younger one's face recalled the spirit of the elder, when he was a very small boy. Resolute, unwavering, his vulnerability shining through in spots, but instead of revealing weakness, it seemed it was his ultimate power. And so, unbelievably, he agreed.

Sam watched closely as the angel poured the oil carefully, letting it fall drop by drop onto the surface of the liquid they had collected in the bucket. There was something about his face, the intentness of his eyes and the way he held his other arm close by his side, curled slightly against his body almost as if it held a weapon ready to defend them. Sam blinked and an image of John Winchester appeared in a blur against his retinas, lodged in memory. Superimposed on the figure of Castiel the similarity was unmistakable.

Castiel looked up from what he was doing. His glance swept over both brothers, and he cocked his head slightly, moistening his lips as if he were about to speak. Then as Sam watched, the angel caught Dean's eye and held it intently. And then he turned back to the container of collected oil, lifted his hands, and intoned softly.

"_Baruch ata Adonai Eluhenu Melech ha'olam, boreit shemen v'tzivanu le-hadlik ner shel ha'Eish Kodesh. Amein_."2 intoned the angel, and he poured the last of the original oil into the vessel. Dean released a slow, pent-up breath, and Sam straightened his shoulders. They looked at one another and then at the figure in the beige trench coat.

"Thanks, Cas, it's been real." Dean clapped his shoulder, a wry twist to his lips.

Sam nodded and stuck out his large hand, the fingers so strong, perfectly shaped, almost delicately so. "Thank you," Sam murmured. His eyes seemed to say more, but then he looked away suddenly, and back at his brother. Dean stared expectantly at Castiel.

"What? That's all? You're expecting me to leave now? Just leave?" If he hadn't been an angel, Cas would have been less surprised, but perhaps more comfortable with the feeling, or at least more cognizant of it. This wasn't supposed to happen to him. He was becoming less able to deal with them and could only do as they said. He didn't know why it should happen like this. It was wrong.

He should be able to work with them. Be with them. He recognized the brothers were a package deal now, he wasn't trying to force one to do without the other. Better for them all that they should work as a team. Why couldn't they see this?

"Goodbye, Cas." Dean covered the oil carefully with a large lid made to fit the top of the bucket, and hoisted it. He turned in the direction of the car, and set the bucket carefully in the floor of the vehicle. Sam got in and folded his legs on either side of it.

"Don't try to follow us," warned Dean.

This was, of course, a directive Cas had no intention of following. It was harder now, for all the reasons he'd come in the first place, but he didn't feel right about going against Dean's wishes. After all, these were holy orders given to him a long time ago. And nothing had changed since then, not really.

The angel knew, however, if he were to follow the older Winchester's orders, ultimately this would mean that he – Castiel, and the angel he was inside and had been for millennia – would be pitted against one of the Winchesters, and that this was going to happen sooner rather than later.

He resolved to be the angel that he was. He would face Sam Winchester's wrath and go along with what he knew of this plan – because being the creature that he was, this angel really didn't have a choice.

Besides, if he was reading the signs correctly, he'd be summoned soon enough. The End Game ultimately would involve him just as much as it would Sam, and Dean, and Lucifer. He left his tired body and went and stood in a fine and quiet place, and waited.

***

_The road is long, it lingers on  
My eyes are dim  
My head is weak  
And tears stain my cheek…  
You look for signs I'm giving in  
And still you condemn me  
All of my life, I'll not betray…  
I see everything is broken down…  
Well my heart is breaking and recording in sound  
I need a miracle now…  
Uh huh   
Hanging on a miracle tree  
Hanging like a noose for you and me  
Say yeah, right now…  
\--World's Forgotten Boy, Billy Idol_

Why did it have to happen this way? Sam remembered so much pain and fear, sadness and horror – years and years of it. He just wanted it to end. And God, his head hurt.

"My head feels like a turnip with a bunch of hot coals inside it," Dean swore as he pressed a fist against the back of his neck and rubbed with his knuckles, briefly. He dropped his hand and looked up at Sam, questioning but grim. The two of them had stopped in the middle of nowhere a few miles from their destination, to take a last piss, stretch their legs, and try not to count the minutes.

Dean had been silent for the last couple of hours, but Sam realized that was about to change as he felt a cold beer pressed into his hand. Dean was leaning back against the car, his silhouette outlined against the starlight. The air was still. Sam sat on the hood, beside him.

"The End Game is coming, Sam, and there is only one way to stop it. And I'm not sure it's even right to try anymore; I'm not even sure we're playing on the right side. I mean, it never felt right to me to go up against you – and I still don't want to do it. But that's what they keep telling us we're supposed to do, and I'm out of options here." A muscle worked in Sam's jaw, and Dean dropped his gaze to the toe of his dusty boots. He finished in a whisper, wishing with every shred of the scarred flesh that wrapped around his tired bones that the words he spoke would somehow be negated as soon as he said them, but unable to stop himself.

Sam's voice sounded as tired as Dean felt. "Dean - maybe we're supposed to give in - in order for humanity to win. Maybe we sacrifice – each other – and something happens."

"What, Sam? Everybody else gets to live if we get rid of the two lead contenders for the Asshole of Eternity Award? If they're gone – and if their vessels go with them – well, I guess there's no more war. Okay." Dean smirked and shook his head. "So that's what you think this is about?"

Sam's shoulders sagged. "I don't know. I don't know anymore, Dean. All I know is, I'm tired. I'm tired and this thing, this one damned question, keeps coming up. I say, we stop fighting it. We go through that door, and we take them with us."

Dean nodded, his eyes narrowing. "I see." He turned around and stared at his brother, and tried to imagine it. He couldn't. Suddenly he left the car, walked a few steps away, stopped, and flung out his arms as he turned.

"Sam. I don't think I can do that. I can't watch you –"

"You won't have to, Dean. We don't have to do it together – I mean, I think we do have to do it together, but – we don't have to _be_ together – in fact, it wouldn't work if we were. There's no way we can both convince those two we mean business if we're standing right beside one another. We have to do it apart. I take my vessel and walk one way and you take yours and go in the opposite direction."

Dean kicked at the ground. "And then we –"

"Yeah."

They were silent for some minutes. Sam got down off the hood and covered the few steps between them. He stopped before the silent, taciturn figure, started to reach out, then dropped his hand and made a fist. Dean gestured limply with the beer bottle, then shook his head and took a long, hard swallow. Finally Dean spoke, and Sam listened, and heard the words he'd waited for - and yet in hearing them his heart died a little, because Dean was giving in, and the speech wasn't the relief that Sam had hoped for. Instead, with every syllable Dean spoke Sam's heart dissolved and began to melt away, and by the time his brother finished Sam was a hollow husk, devoid of emotion, all feeling and energy gone.

Dean was still talking. "Nobody left to string it out, to keep fighting. Things go back to the way they were, for everybody else, and you and me – we don't have to be around to see that. I mean, all we know is fighting evil. We're not good for anything else. So I think – I think I can take that – I mean, knowing the world's gonna be okay. And that is the way it's supposed to be, right, Sam? I mean – why create a world – just to have it all blow up?"

The hand on his arm was tentative, but firm. "Dean."

Dean looked back up, and saw that Sam's eyes were moist, but a grin tickled the edge of his lips. Sam managed a watery smile. "Yeah?"

"You just won the chick-flick moment award of the century. Shut up and drive." Sam Winchester knew that somehow, that was the way it should be.

And Dean laughed, and a frisson of something that felt immediately like hatred – something that Sam struggled to conform into guilt, jealousy, miserable sadness, maybe even grief – but whatever it was, it was huge and dynamic as it struck through Sam like a lightning bolt. It was a cloud of misery that Sam could hardly see out of. He stood there dead inside, and Dean had never sounded more alive. His laughter was beautiful, raw, challenging him to stand up and fight for what they both believed in, and it rang in Sam's ears like silver bells heralding a great event. And Dean kept laughing as he recognized the emotion for what it was: dark, sinister – it was the black hole of despair.  
_  
Hello darkness, my old friend…_

He turned and walked back to the Impala without another word, hearing the crunch of Dean's boots behind him like the hammer of nails into his coffin, the steady beat of firing pistons, the pounding of the horsemen's hooves echoing in his own footsteps against the clatter of stones across his path, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Dean got in beside him, turned the music up loud and said, "Sing, Sammy. Sing." And in spite of himself Sam joined in and sang along with his brother.

_Lord I was born a rambling man  
Tryin' to make a living and doin' the best I can  
When it's time for leaving   
I hope you'll understand  
That I was born a rambling man_

***

The Impala was parked at the edge of the ridge, a cacophonous rush of noise blaring from the speakers, spilling out the windows into the dying night. Dean cut the engine, and they got out.

The Playa Lake. This was it. This was the place. They had reached their destination.

Sam stepped to the side and opened the rear passenger door, where they had stored the holy oil that Castiel had sanctified and blended with drops of pure Jerusalem oil. Dean opened the trunk and lifted out the plastic jugs, and they worked silently, filling them two by two from the five-gallon bucket. They divided up the oil, intending to carry it some distance away using the plastic jugs. After they had finished Sam replaced the nearly empty container neatly on the floor of the car and closed the door again, following Dean who had already walked to the edge of the precipice.

They looked out over the valley at the gathering mist as it rose far below them.

And now they were here, and suddenly Sam wasn't sure of anything anymore. He felt panic rising like the slow advance of an army, and his soul bucked and railed against the end of this journey he had taken with his brother. Suddenly he felt wrong and bereft and totally demoralized.

Sam and Dean put down their burdens, and they stared over the edge for long minutes, just breathing. After a time, he felt an arm around his shoulder, and he laced his wiry fingers around Dean's wrist. The shadows grew deeper, and the wind rose slightly.

"Well, come on, then," said Dean. "We haven't got much time now."

"Where does it say it has to be at dawn?" said Sam. "As far as I know there's been no lore, no book ever written that says how to do this."

"It just does, Sammy," Dean responded. "Just trust me."

Sam was silent, brooding, his eyes watchful as he ran them once more over his brother. _At the end, there will be the beginning. And so it is written, blah blah blah…_ He sighed. "I guess," he answered. _Still, he couldn't believe they were going to do this. Couldn't – _"Dean, I know this was my idea, but now I'm – I mean, I'm not sure we thought this through. Maybe we missed something. I'm thinking, surely there's another option here –"

"There isn't, Sam. You know there isn't." Dean cut in softly, his words carrying the weight of centuries.

Sam stopped, and listened to his own heart beating loud in his ears. "I know."

"I hate it just as much as you do. Like I said, you don't have to do it, too – I'm older, and I'm tired - I'm going –"

"Shut up, Dean."

He gazed at his older brother in the silence that stretched between them, fighting down an urge to grab the jugs and throw them out over the edge into the bleakness of the morning. Dean saw his struggle, and he picked one up, holding out the jug in his right hand. "Take it, Sammy."

Sam took the jug.

"I'll see you on the other side, then," he smiled at Dean.

"Cut the crap, Sammy. You know there isn't –"

"No, Dean. No, I don't know. I don't know anything about what's coming. I only know that this is the only way _we know_ to get rid of them, the only way to end it. And it sucks, and I don't like it, but –"

"That's the way it is."

He stood there, glowering. Then he sighed. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean murmured.

"Me, too."

They stood together for a time, and then Dean tossed his chin upward and wheeled away, the last golden light in his eyes shining hard in the stillness. Sam stared after him, then turned and walked in the opposite direction.

***

Dean found the spot at the eastern edge of the Playa Lake and knelt down, pulling a small leaflet and his lighter from the pockets of his jeans. He took off his shirt and squinted over his shoulder. Still dark, but the fingerlets of dawn were creeping upward. He felt rather than saw Sam standing fifteen minutes' walk away, hidden in the shadows that veiled the western edge of the dry lake bed.

Facing east, while Dean faced west.

He wondered if he would live long enough to see the light, and immediately hoped he wouldn't. He didn't want that to be the last sight to flicker across his retinas. He wanted to remember Sam the way he was.

Dean figured, even if it didn't work, they gave it their best shot… which meant, they'd go down swinging. And that was all he ever asked. Well, that and for Sammy to have a life. And see, he thought, hesitating - that was the problem with this plan… if they actually went through with it, that wouldn't be an option anymore. So what was Dean supposed to do?

He didn't have any answers this time. He knew that Sam had long ago left college dreams behind and committed to _this life_. In this, Sam's resolve was thicker than his, in fact, he was losing time because Sam would be well on his way by now to getting the deed done. Dean decided to close his eyes when the time came… he'd spare himself watching every last, best hope he'd ever had on this earth die right in front of him.

Except that Dean had one last card in his hand, and it was the ace of spades.

He took a deep breath, and purposefully began pouring oil over his clothing, counting on the dark to hide his movements, leaving his shirt off until after he had summoned ...Lucifer.

***

On the other side, Sam had already sketched the sigil in the dust and stood in oil-soaked jeans, his shirt sticking to his arms and back like flypaper. He began reading the words from John's journal, holding it before him and concentrating on the form of the letters as he breathed through the first verse, and began the second.

Two prayers. Two brothers. Two angels. _Sorry, Dean_.

He stood and saw the painted world before him in lavender brushstrokes tinged with red and green, violet-blue and orange, black and white. Still wrapped in darkness before the sun arose, Sam stopped breathing at the end of the last sentence. He waited, watching, didn't want to miss it. His eyes were steeled against the dimness, picking out flecks of white against the shadows as the form of his nemesis wavered, then stilled and grew stronger until he was a brilliant but still invisible thing that stood before him. And as the last remnant of fear dropped away, he whispered, "Come and get me."

And the first angel answered, "Here I am."

Sam blinked. There was a figure in a beige trench coat standing with an unexpected though decided lack of personal space, right in front of him. He took a step backward. "Cas," said Sam. "Go away. You're not the one I summoned."

"Yes," he said. "I am. And I'm stopping this, now."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, it's over. It's done. I'm not fighting Lucifer."

"Oh, come on. You're _Michael_?" Sam laughed out loud. "Oh, this is good." He shook his head and called out, "Well, whatever. I'm ready. You can have me – all yours. Come and get it," he breathed, his fingers twitching as he rubbed the bit of steel in his hand.

The angel nodded. "Not so fast, Sam. I've watched you and your brother sacrifice over and over for one another. And we thought, this will be a piece of cake. Eventually we'll wear them down, they'll give in. They're fighters, both of them."

Sam said, "I am. We are." His eyes intent in the stillness, he whispered the final word of the second prayer.

Michael stepped closer. "This isn't necessary. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I do."

"No. I said, you don't. I'm not going to take you _or_ Dean. You and your brother have done enough."

"Not yet. There's one more thing. Play our roles, remember?"

"That story's been played out. It's over."

"What do you mean, it's over?" And the fallen angel pointed. Sam looked up, and instead of the sun creeping over the horizon, he saw a thunderhead.

"Doesn't matter. Dean's going to summon you at any moment. If you don't want to go, you have another option. You can talk your brother out of a tree if you like. But something's going down, and it's going to happen now. Either you accept me, or I accept Lucifer."

***

The lightning flashed, and Dean watched as far away, the steel-grey sheets of rain began to fall, and the storm moved closer.

"I don't understand," he yelled at the shifting shade in front of him. "You assholes want to kill each other. We're giving you that chance!"

"Maybe I did once. But now - I'm being called. Excuse me, I'm going to talk to my own brother."

He held Dean's eyes for a brief second, and then he disappeared.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean had no idea what the last words Lucifer said had meant, but he dropped the leaflet, his lighter, everything, and took off over the Playa like a scared jackal, running as fast as his legs could carry him, his heart constricted so tightly in his chest he could hardly breathe.

***

He saw Sam standing tall and facing the horizon, head tilted back, lights dancing around him, and he knew he was too late. There was a flash and Sam's arm was engulfed in blue-white flame.

And Dean stared as he realized, he didn't have to look, wasn't going to see the sight he was afraid of, had dreaded, had vowed as a little boy would never happen to his brother. But he wasn't the one carrying the load this time. As the rain began to fall harder, he felt it literally lifted from him. _Sam… Sammy. _There were no words left in Dean's mind, no need to formulate what he had left to do. He doubled his speed, ran faster, never stopping to think as he approached.

And he ran full force straight into his brother's burning body.

***

It was over. They were done, it was finished. He had accepted Lucifer, it had all gone according to his contingency plan. He'd flicked the lighter the moment he'd felt him take over, expecting to see the flames crawling up his arm, licking the fabric as the fuel ignited… but something else was happening. Surely he was alight, but it felt like he was floating, and he hadn't expected this. His mind focused in on that one fact. He wondered why he did not feel the burning.

"You tricked me," his accuser said, and the voice was within his own body, closer than his own mind, his own soul. When he spoke again Sam could feel the anguish and betrayal wash over him. "I thought you wanted me – finally – but it was a trick. You summoned Michael too, didn't you?"

_Yes_, Sam said. _ You son of a bitch._ But his lips could not move, there was no noise, no pain, and no warning as he turned and saw Dean's form advancing. It was too late now. But wait, he thought, feeling emptiness at war with the agony within him. His last thought was he felt himself losing consciousness was that he wanted to see... he couldn't remember. Where was Dean? _Dean…_ And …then dimly, Sam understood.

It was too late. What had he done to them both?

Bobby drove into the Playa going sixty miles an hour. He wasn't too late, he prayed. He wasn't. But he saw that something was on fire, something, or someone tall … and two figures melded into to one at the side of the dry desert, and he turned the truck full on toward them. The headlights danced over them as he shouted and hurled his fist at the dark sky. _ Oh God_, he said. _Rain… Make it rain._

There was a rush of wind, like wings brushing over Sam's face, and he felt a jolt of recognition shudder through the beings that occupied his body. He heard voices shouting as he slumped to the ground, felt himself lifted onto strong shoulders, and the rain was in his face. _Twin souls_, he wondered. _ They were talking about …twin souls. What does that mean? And why us, why now, and why all the waiting?_

And then he remembered, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. _And to dust you shall return_.

And he knew that Michael and Lucifer were gone, and it was raining.

He thought for a moment and realized he had been aware for some of it. There were flashes of lightning, thunder in the sky, and the rain kept coming down, putting the fire out, and then Sam had felt a searing, blinding heat as the angels left his body behind, and he found himself on the ground, flat on his back, his skin knitting itself back together, the wounds feathering over and closing, cool pattering touches of something soft and weightless – raindrops, harder now and coming fast on his heated flesh.

His brow wrinkled as he tried to put two and two together and failed, utterly. Sam looked up into Dean's grim gaze, watching as his brother's eyes softened and smiling conspiratorially, and murmured, "So …did you pull the fire alarm?"

Dean chuckled, and pillowed Sam's head against his chest. "I guess," he said fiercely. Then he gestured over his shoulder to clouds that covered the now empty Playa. "I had help. Although what the hell were _you_ doing, shoulderin' my angel?"

"Back atcha." Sam grinned, breathing hoarsely, trying to catch his breath. "Thank you." He sat up, looked around. Sam made a face, pushed the hair back out of his eyes with unsinged fingertips. He stretched his hands before his face and looked at his brother. "So …now what?"

And Dean said, "Damned if I know," as they grinned at each other, not really believing what they were seeing: each other, face to face. A miracle. They had seen through the mirror darkly, dimly, where the world was in shadow and smoke and nothing had ever been what it seemed to be. They'd lost their home, their family, and friends, and even their own lives.

And finally, he knew it was over, and they were free. _Now you will feel no pain, for each of you will be shelter for the other…_

The rain came down harder, soaking the ground, running over their skin, extinguishing the rest of the fires that had caught in the dry brush. The two of them sat there and watched the rain, catching their breath, listening to the steady hum and hiss of dying embers. The battle had been fought and won, long ago, as a little boy had run out into the world one night, carrying his baby brother in his arms. _Take your brother and go. Don't look back._ That's what made them different… they had taken those words to heart. It was the one lesson taught to him that had become as natural to Sam as breathing. The one thing he never forgot.

No matter where he went, Sam always took his brother with him. That was his salvation. And Dean's. And because of this, the angels realized that they both fully intended to destroy themselves to avert a war that no one else could end. They could not kill each other, but they could end it, by God. For them, there was no other option. And faced with this, Lucifer and Michael called a truce. Crisis averted. Game over. Meet us at the bar later, drinks are on us. So to speak.

It was like being born, all over again. Dean helped Sam to his feet as Bobby roared up in the van, and would have leaped out of his seat if he could. He gestured and they ran to his window, clasped hands and then hopped in the back.

They made their way back up to the Impala, and got out, swinging long legs over the ground in unison along the short distance to their car, as Bobby frowned at them paternally in his side view mirror. The rain had stopped, and a warm wind blew softly over the Playa below them. Waving at Bobby, Dean called out, "Come on, Bobby, I'd say we earned breakfast. We'll meet you in town, on the other side." Sam nodded agreement, and leaned in to the back seat, ruffling through their duffels for dry clothes. With a last wave and a shake of his head, Bobby's tail lights disappeared around the bend, but they wouldn't be far behind him. They stayed a moment to change and laugh again at the fact they were alive. It was ridiculous, their lives were insane. But they agreed it was better at that moment than being dead, or worse.

And then they got in the car again and drove away down the ribbon of asphalt into the morning, the tires whispering over the wet pavement, the engine humming along with the tune from the dashboard. She was a steel horse carrying her warrior brothers safely home, into tomorrow, world without end, amen.

The Reaper stood to one side, and smiled, unsure of herself for a moment. It was like they were made to do nothing but face death. Again, and again, they would go on – one brother sacrificing, bleeding, and burning, for the brother who had sacrificed, burned, and bled for him. And she finally understood that this was their story, and how it was supposed to end, as it had begun. She hadn't thought of that, it was all a joke, a game – second verse, same as the first. Or something like that.

She was needed elsewhere, and so she went where she was called. Sooner or later, she'd see them. Until then, she was content to wait. They all had work to do.

_F I N_

 

1 Literally: "Oh Dark Prince, give (to) us power (that is: dominion and control), and consecrate these actions! Help us!"  
2 "Blessed is God, Ruler of the Universe, Who created the oil of olives and commanded us to kindle Sacred Light. So be it."


End file.
